


The Downward Spiral

by BlindSwandive



Series: Down In The Dirt [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Breathplay, Canon-divergent from pre-series, Don't Try This At Home, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Hair-pulling, Hedonist Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Powers! Sam, M/M, Masochist Sam Winchester, Non-Con/Rape Outside of Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pretend non-con becomes actual non-con, Prostitution, Protective Dean Winchester, Punk Scene, Recreational Drug Use, Unsafe Sex, Violence, Violent Dean Winchester, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Living with Dean felt like walking in the dark along a narrow wall, where some of the bricks were loose or starting to crumble—exhilarating, dizzying, and always just a breath or a jerk away from tumbling into danger.  Dean reeled in johns on the promise of Sam's reluctant mouth, and Sam played along with relish, fought just enough to sell it before swallowing for their supper.  And usually, if they played it right, they didn't fall.  Most of the time, they even came out not too much worse for wear—or at least not any worse off than they wanted to be.But occasionally, shit went wrong.  Really wrong.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Down In The Dirt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567930
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	The Downward Spiral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wings_of_crows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings_of_crows/gifts).



> My amazing girlfriend [Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wings_of_crows/) enabled me so good on the first part of this series I had to write her this sequel, using her perfect ending line. <3 Love you so much, sweet girl. 
> 
> Beta'd by the fab [Alyndra!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyndra/)
> 
> Feedback is love.

Living with Dean felt like walking in the dark along a narrow wall, where some of the bricks were loose or starting to crumble—exhilarating, dizzying, and always just a breath or a jerk away from tumbling into danger. Dean reeled in johns on the promise of Sam's reluctant mouth, and Sam played along with relish, fought just enough to sell it before swallowing for their supper. And usually, if they played it right, they didn't fall. Most of the time, they even came out not too much worse for wear—or at least not any worse off than they wanted to be. 

But occasionally, shit went wrong. Really wrong.

These days Sam almost never took off the spiked belt he'd stolen from some punk john he'd blown in an alleyway a few months before, so it wasn't much of a surprise when a much more together john finally used it to leash him to something by the neck. Another mosh was being ignored upstairs—Dean found most of their clients that way—but this guy owned (or said he owned) the building and he was too old to be there otherwise and anyway he had the keys to the utilities downstairs, so it might have been true. (Then again, maybe he was a weird janitor or a creepy cousin of the owner or a serial killer who'd whacked whoever the keys really belonged to and stashed the body. Sam figured it was even odds.) The john had led Sam and Dean down to the electrical works and with Dean's help had muscled Sam down onto his knees up against the metal caging surrounding it, and used the belt to strap him to it by the throat. They trapped his wrists out by his sides with some stray electrical ties the john dug out of a steel locker.

It was uncomfortable, the angle impossible, and Sam fucking _loved_ it. And he didn't have to fake the fear in his eyes, this time; there was something a little off about this one, a little cracked open, and a thrilled/scared part of Sam was sure he was bad news, that Sam would get hurt, that it would be too much somehow. He prayed silently he was right.

While Sam jerked, the john pulled a small paper envelope out of a pocket, shaking out a handful of small, unmarked pills. He popped one and then offered one to Dean, who was never so ungracious as to turn down something illicit (so long as he saw someone else take it, too). Sam pretended to fight when they tried to give him one, but just so they'd double-team him to force it in, to _make_ him take it. Dean clenched a fistful of his hair and the john held his nose, and when Sam gasped, the bitter tab tipped onto his tongue, sticking and starting to quickly dissolve. He wondered with a wicked little thrill what it would do to him.

Above him, Dean and the john negotiated over his body like he wasn't there, like it wasn't his. Sam tried to look offended, tried to sulk, but it was as much for show as the rest of the fight. In reality, Dean talking about him like he had as much agency as a sex doll went straight to his balls. And that little possessive edge that cut in when Dean shut down any discussion of Sam's ass gave him some perverse sense of safety and calm. "You don't get to fuck his ass" wasn't most people's idea of a love note, but Sam privately thought it was pretty sweet.

In the end, they agreed on the rules and for an extra $50, the john talked Dean inside the cage (door open, of course) to loom over Sam from behind, to maybe tug the belt taut or pull his hair. That was where Dean liked best to be, anyway, but Sam knew he'd be wary about the separation, knew he was calculating the odds of the guy managing to cage him in against how bad they needed the extra money. In Sam's estimate, it was even odds on who'd get to the door first if the guy decided he really wanted to fuck with them, but times were lean and they hadn't eaten in a couple days. (He'd have made all the same decisions, pills and all, and he'd be telling Dean so every day for the next month, after this one, little good it'd do.)

So that's how they wound up separated by metal, on some unknown drug, with Dean's fingers threaded through the chain link above him, just visible when Sam twisted to see but blurring, what with his eyes watering a little in the weird light and dizzy from hunger and high as fuck on it all. Sam bucked from the hips, playing it like an unbroken rodeo horse fighting away from the reins, but it was all hindbrain, all thrust. The john pressed his boot warningly over Sam's cock, pushing until he ached and had to give in and slink back against the cage. When he opened his mouth, choking back a pained groan, the john's thumb slid inside, pressing down his tongue, stretching his jaw wide enough he was threatened by the tips of the spikes on his own belt.

Sam wondered if the john could tell through the sole of his boot how hard his cock was. Dean probably knew; Sam could feel the stiff press of Dean's dick against the back of his skull, through denim and chain link. 

Fingers tangled in his hair, tethering him flush to the cage, so he couldn't tip forward to close his mouth. "Open up, Sammy," Dean teased, as if Sam had any choice. Sam grunted in only half-real insult, but the thumb on his tongue kept him from making any coherent protest. And he was starting to drool.

The john made some sign to Dean that Sam couldn't make out, and one finger slid between his neck and the belt, just enough of a threat to make his heart race, pulse hammering in his ears.

"Just like that," the john murmured, and opened his fly.

Sam couldn't do anything, couldn't bob his head or even close his lips around it, his jaw still in the john's grip, but the john didn't seem to mind that one bit. He took his time, sliding the salt-sour of his semi over Sam's tongue with slow rocking tilts, letting it slowly fill with blood in place, filling Sam's mouth gradually. 

Sam was no stranger to having his throat closed off with cock, but something about the incremental build of the threat was standing all the hairs up on the back of his neck, his skin screaming out _warning._ He jerked unthinking against the plastic ties and wound up briefly choking himself on his own belt, coughing hard around the john's dick until Dean loosened his grip.

"All right, Sammy?" Dean asked above him, gruff, but Sam heard the genuine concern there. He nodded very slightly, trusting Dean would feel the tug of his hair, but then the john slid almost imperceptibly deeper and he gagged violently.

"Hey!" Dean snapped, loosing his hair to slam a fist into the cage. "Watch it."

Sam couldn't make it out over his coughing, but he assumed the john's muttering overhead was some form of apology. Anyway, the dick dislodged from Sam's windpipe, so that was something, and eventually his coughing settled down. Grimacing, Sam swallowed back bile and sucked down a few pained breaths, hoping the drugs would kick in soon. He thought maybe the world was getting a little soft at the edges, a little blurred and scattered over with spots, but that could have just been the choking; he decided to withhold judgment for the time being, at least until he'd caught his breath properly.

Dean's fingertips scratched over his scalp, soothing, and Sam felt his body unwind by degrees, tension being crowded out by the warmth of Dean's fingers and a cool prickling in the rest of his skin. After a minute, he realized that his mouth was empty, and that Dean and the john were arguing overhead, but the words weren't carrying any meaning. Another minute like that, and he decided that probably meant the drugs were working after all. 

Sam tried wiggling his fingers experimentally, but couldn't tell if it had happened or not. He thought the color had sharpened in the room, and a little euphoria blurred everything pleasantly, from the distant grind of the music upstairs to Dean's increasingly agitated shouting, and he ran through the list of illicit substances in his head looking for a good match. His pulse was suddenly running fast and shallow, hummingbirding around in his throat.

"What is this?" he tried to ask, but his tongue just lolled thick and uncooperative. He frowned (or thought he did, anyway), tried to say "Dean," but only managed the "nnn," tunnel vision narrowing the world alarmingly.

 _I'm about to pass out,_ he tried, and _Dean, help me,_ but nothing came out. And anyway, a moment later there was a warm lurch behind him, Dean's weight sagging in against him through the cage. The shrinking room tilted into a slow spin, and the last thing he saw before the world went black was the brittle, broken smile of the john overhead, the last thing he heard Dean collapsing behind him.

• • •

Sam woke gradually, limbs heavy and cold and unwilling to follow his direction. He tried to work his mouth, but it didn't respond, his clumsy tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. His throat felt tight and full, the spikes of his improvised collar digging into the underside of his chin.

It took him some time to remember where he was, but understanding slotted slowly into place; he had passed out lashed to a cage and must have slumped down, leaving his weight hanging against the belt, squeezing his throat half shut. He'd been drugged, and so had Dean. He wondered whether the john had faked taking his own pill or taken something different that just looked close enough to someone who didn't know there was a ringer in the mix.

There was a strange metallic snicking sound, and Sam battled to open his eyes to identify the source. When the blurring resolved, he saw a pair of utility scissors slowly dividing the center logo of his hole-filled t-shirt, and a cool trickle of panic spilled down his spine. He couldn't hear Dean, couldn't see Dean, couldn't even manage to groan for help. His heart felt like it was fluttering up into his throat, trying to beat the scissors as they drove upward, baring his pale belly and chest to the strange too-grey light of the basement. The scissors reached his throat and the fabric fell away like nothing, apparently already having been divided over his shoulders, and he felt his skin break out in goosebumps. There was a jerk that rocked him when the tee was pulled free from behind him and his head swam with it.

Sam usually loved bed spins, but he was _not_ enjoying them this time. This time, they left him feeling helpless and nauseated, and he fixed his sticky eyes on a mole beside his belly button while he waited for the seasickness to subside.

"Awake?" the john asked, but didn't wait for an answer. He lifted Sam's head by the hair—Sam couldn't seem to lift it himself—and squinted into Sam's eyes. Then, apparently satisfied, dropped his head again. Sam grunted when his chin pricked on his belt. 

_Where's Dean? Is he okay?_ he tried to ask, but it came out as another garbled "Nnng" and the only response was the sound of fabric tearing. A moment later, what Sam could only assume had been part of his t-shirt had been wadded into a tight roll and stuffed into his mouth as a gag.

"Won't be able to make much noise for a while anyway," the john explained quietly, patting his cheek, "but we don't want your voice coming back at a bad time."

Sam's violent attempt at a struggle resulted in two of his fingers twitching and nothing else. Even that he had to give up on too quickly; the t-shirt was wicking all the moisture out of his tongue and breathing around the mass in his mouth was taking too much effort. He managed a small sound of protest but it sounded weak and petulant in his ears. 

The john disappeared and there was a rattle of metal and a faint shake Sam felt through his back. His brain was still a little sluggish, catching up, but the john didn't leave him wondering long, mumbling, "Don't want your pimp getting out too soon..." 

Sam's stomach dropped out sharply.

Dean was still there, then—that was cause for hope—but he was also (most likely) still unconscious, and now he was locked inside the cage, somehow, too. One or the other and Sam would have still given his brother good odds, but the two together seemed like too much even for Dean.

Sam hoped he'd wake up soon. And with more muscle control than Sam had.

But then the john was back with his scissors and Sam felt nauseous for a whole new reason, cold sweat prickling between his shoulder blades. As the cool metal blade slipped into the waist of his too-tight jeans, just over his hipbone, he tried again to struggle and managed to get his nostrils flaring and a twitch out of one elbow, but then his muscles failed him and he had to pant for air again. The john huffed, and Sam wasn't sure if it was excitement or derision. 

The scissors left a train of chill in their wake as the metal slid smooth against his skin, pressing deep along the muscle. Even though he couldn't move, Sam instinctively held his breath against jostling, especially when the blades came too close to his cock for comfort. When the john finished splitting the first leg down to the knee, he left the fabric pinned by Sam's dead weight (he was pretty sure his legs were numb from the knees down at this point), and then the other leg got the same slow and steady treatment. Finally the john cut through the center, nudging the ruined denim back out of the way, and Sam was left naked from knees to throat. There was nothing left between his legs to block the john from spreading them wider, or from wedging himself in between them.

Not even Dean.

Sam tried to argue—provisos and verbal agreements that all said the john was in violation of the terms of their informal contract—but his tongue would only cooperate as far as a repeating "Nn—nn," an abortive _no_ that couldn't escape around the gag as anything but a weak moan. And anyway, someone who drugged you and cut the clothes off of you was unlikely to be concerned with honoring terms.

The john left his view again and came back with a jar of Vaseline, and Sam succeeded in twitching his abdominal muscles in his panic. All of his skin felt suddenly chilled, except for his face and neck where the heat spread red and blotchy. The john patted his face roughly and then knelt down in front of him, fishing his dick back out of his pants and giving it a slow stroke. Sam tried to lift or turn his head, to avert his eyes from but the reddening, thickening cock, but his head wouldn't move and he couldn't seem to force himself to close his eyes. There was a shining bead of precum at the tip.

The Vaseline gave the john's dick an unnatural look, coating it in a shine that was thick and surreal through the drugs. Sam swallowed dry as his vision blurred, and he forced his eyes open a little wider, unwilling to let a tear spill for the john's satisfaction. But when he heard a soft rustle and moan behind him and knew Dean must be coming to—must be waking now to see Sam cut bare with another man's knees between his and long cold fingers prodding between his legs—the battle was lost and he guttered a breath, a tear blinking out silently.

"Open up, Sammy," the john quoted quietly, voice hoarse and intense, as he shoved a few fingerfuls of Vaseline up inside of Sam's ass, ignoring the twitching of the muscles and the gasp of shock and pain Sam couldn't manage to suppress. Sam stared at the man's band tee under his nose and wished he couldn't smell his cologne, wished he couldn't smell his detergent and his skin. Wished he couldn't make out the threads and the way the screen-printing was beginning to fleck off of the logos, or the tiny faint stain over his ribs. Wished Dean could move.

Not that wishes ever did anybody any good.

"Open up," the john repeated, nudging the bizarrely cool, hard tip of his cock up against the hot and soft of Sam. He moved slow and easy, like before, teasing circles and that warning swelling, but then his hips twitched too eagerly and Sam was split all at once, the head breaching him bare.

Instinctively Sam tried to clench up to lock him out, to cut him off midway. All he managed to achieve was a jolt of pain while the john rocked in and out with no more difficulty, keeping to those impossibly small motions, lingering at the entrance. The hot breath on his scalp and the huff of air by his ear turned his stomach, and the wild thought that he should try to throttle himself on his belt came unbidden but passed just as quickly.

It wasn't really an option. Sam determined he had to live through this, because if he lived through it, he would get to see Dean turn this man's face into meat and pulp and bone, and that would be worth it. He grunted as loudly as he could, willing Dean to hear it, to know that it was him and that it was a cry for help, a call to arms. _Wake up,_ he begged on an inarticulate sound, _wake up and get up and kill him._

There was a sick little groan as the john pushed up a little further inside, a sound of pleasure and relief, and Sam hated it, and hated this feeling, this helplessness and weakness. 

_Get up and kill him and let me watch,_ he thought.

No; it wasn't the helplessness or the weakness, really. He liked those, when he knew he was safe in the ways that mattered, when Dean was there standing over him and ready to kill for him if needed. It was _Dean's_ helplessness that he hated, that turned the wild and freewheeling feeling of abandon to something frightened and seasick in his belly. He loved being thrown mid-air, tossed like a child, but Dean was his net. If he fell here, now, he would break, shivering, on the ground.

The john's fingers were clammy, too hard and cool, too steeped in the underground and chill of basements and whatever sickness was inside him, and Sam's skin jolted when they bumped clumsily over his ribs, climbing his thin chest in a spidery crawl. They feathered light over his collarbone, brushing appreciatively over the hard line where the belt was digging into his throat, and then the john's mouth was at Sam's temple, teeth scraping along the skin and pulling his hair in along his damp forehead, sticking it there in Sam's own sweat.

One more ugly jolt, and the john was balls deep inside of him, breathless and trembling.

With his muscles soft and uncompliant, it felt too hard, too unyielding inside of him, and it wasn't _Dean's_ —the shock of that thought, that this place that had so far been touched by no one but Dean or Sam himself, was no longer sacrosanct, pushed a sound of agony out of him. Around the gag, Sam howled, and there was an answering howl from behind him inside the cage, but that one was a sound of rage and hate.

Dean was _awake. Really_ awake.

 _Up,_ Sam willed, nausea ebbing away slowly in favor of wrath and loathing and bloodlust.  
_Up,_ he thought, hard, _and kill._

There was an answering lurch; in his mind, Sam could imagine Dean rolling from his side to his belly, elbow gathered and one hand fighting to get under him. It was a start. 

The john's fingers dug into his jaw, lifting his loose head and squeezing around his mouth, and Sam was brought up face to face. There was relief from the pressure on his throat, but the beady, glazed eyes were worse. The john laid his forehead against Sam's then, staring hard into his eyes, and very deliberately thrust up again, rougher this time. And Sam tried to be still and quiet and unbothered, tried to give no satisfaction, but an aching sound escaped, and a small shudder shook through his shoulders.

There was a scraping, rustling sound behind him, and a grunt, and then a hiss, a "Sss" that sounded like it wanted to turn into his name. Sam managed to curl one finger back around the chain link, an attempt at reaching back to his brother.

The john ground up inside of him harder, and something warm brushed against Sam's fingers. Dean's knuckles were touching his—a promise. He pictured those knuckles curled into a fist, and Sam finally closed his eyes.

He tried to blame the stirring in his dick on the relief, and maybe on how he was imagining Dean's eruption into violence, and not on the dick pushing up deep inside of him and the immobilization and the sluggish buzz still coursing in his veins. (Fuck it; he could psychoanalyze his libido later. It wasn't as though it had ever been normal.) At least the john hadn't seemed to notice it, yet, too intent on digging up inside of Sam.

Dean growled behind him, an inarticulate sound of warning. The chain link bowed a little and Sam figured Dean was pulling against it, trying to find his knees, trying to reach his feet. Sam pictured it hard, imagined giving Dean his own hand up for balance, shoving a shoulder under his arm and pulling him upright by sheer will, and then he jolted as Dean's body lurched upright against the cage. Sam panted into his gag, suddenly exhausted but triumphant. He sniffed against an itch in his nose—must be running from the mostly suppressed tears, he supposed—and clutched his eyes tighter shut against a wave of dizziness and relief.

Dean was up. And if Dean was up, there was only so much longer before Sam was free.

"Like that, huh?" the john rasped, and Sam twitched hard when cool fingers wrapped around his dick where it was now up and bobbing interested between their bellies. The other hand let go of Sam's chin to grip his hip, instead, pulling him just slightly closer and separating his ribs from the chain link, and Sam sucked a desperate breath as more of his weight hung against the belt at his throat. He managed to tilt his chin just a fraction and let his eyes open, swiveling them to try for a peripheral glimpse of Dean. There was a blurry moment where he saw Dean's hands at the door of the cage, cinched shut with another plastic cable tie, and Dean furiously trying to break it open. He thought Dean's wrists might be zip-tied too.

Later, Sam might wonder why the ties confining Dean upset him more than the ones binding himself, but he didn't examine it now. Desperately, he wished he could free Dean, even let his eyes fall shut again and pictured wedging a blade of the john's utility scissors through the two ties, trying to create a weak point for Dean to leverage against. The john groaned close to his ear, his slow sawing rhythm stuttering as he presumably got close to blowing inside of Sam.

There was a dull snap behind him and Sam groaned relief into the gag, felt the itching tickle in his nose again. The cage rattled, and Sam tried to open his eyes, tried to see if Dean had broken both ties and was coming to his rescue, but his vision narrowed rapidly, blacking out at the edges. The john jerked at Sam's hip, pulling him harder against the belt, and let out a choked sound of satisfaction. There was a wordless roar behind him as the cage rattled open.

Sam had the space of a breath to feel hopeful—Dean was free, Dean would free him—before he slipped back under, swallowed by blackness.

• • •

Sam floated in darkness, head pounding with pain, as the ugly sounds of struggle crept through, all grunting and growling and the occasional sickening crack. His eyes fluttered open on glimpses of grey and red, of cinderblock and blood and swinging, tangling limbs, and then drifted shut again, content.

• • •

Sam woke to the feeling of cum oozing out of him in an unpleasant glob, and damp cloth wiping it quickly away. The cloth stung.

 _Booze,_ his only half-online brain supplied, and when it swiped by again, a little cool to the touch but leaving burning in its wake, he decided that was probably right.

The gag was gone from his mouth, but he was still propped half upright by his belt, now loosened to its fullest. His wrists were still out to his sides, lashed by the ungiving plastic, and sore—maybe he'd been tugging on them without realizing, digging in futile bruises. He was still on his knees, too, but after there was one more swipe over his ass with the cloth, hands began to gently wriggle one of his legs out from under him, lowering him toward the ground.

The feeling began returning to his numb leg with an agonizing jolt of sensation, screaming pain and stabbing needles and deep ache all at once, and Sam let out an undignified yowl and then a hand was gripping his face carefully, another pushing back his hair.

"Sammy?" Dean said, sharply, half-wild. "Sammy, say something, pal."

"Dean—" Sam managed, and Dean pressed his forehead against his, letting out a shaking breath of relief.

They stayed there, still and silent, for a long moment, and Sam soaked up the contact with his brother, letting it sink into his bones and unwind his tension. When Dean finally pulled back, Sam reluctantly peeled open his eyes to look at him.

Dean's face was swollen and bloodied, red with the promise of bruising around the eye and mouth—clearly he'd had a hell of a fight. His lip was fat and split, and Sam wanted nothing more than to suck it into his mouth, even tried to lunge forward for it but was caught up by the belt, holding him tighter again now that one leg was out from under him, settling him down closer to the floor.

"Easy, tiger," Dean said with a low chuckle, and slowly let go of Sam's face to work his other leg out from under him, let his ass finally rest on the ground. Sam groaned, miserable, and Dean shushed him like a dog, hand going right back to Sam's hair, stroking it back away from his face. Sam let his eyes fall shut again at let himself be soothed, some soft bliss crowding out the agony in his legs.

Though he was naked but for his boots and the calves of his jeans, and still lashed to a cage, with his brother crouching over him Sam felt deeply safe. His head was still pounding, his ass and balls felt chilled from the concrete, his legs were still screaming at him, his wrists felt bruised and welted, and there was an ache up deep inside of him, but even so there was a profound comfort. The binds held his weight up for him and his brother was doing the work of caring for his body and safety; Sam could finally let go of everything, just float and _be._ He felt impossibly safe and content.

He could worry about the rest tomorrow.

Dean sloshed his flask onto another piece of cloth—Sam guessed some of the remains of his shirt—and started dabbing below Sam's nose, over his upper lip. "He hit you, Sammy?" he asked, gruff, but it was covering something soft. Guilt, maybe.

Sam frowned, reluctantly opening his eyes. "No?" His tongue was still thick and sticky, but at least it was more willing to cooperate now. "Don't think so," he amended; he guessed he could have been smacked around while he was unconscious, but there wasn't any ache in his face, unlike most of the rest of his body. "Why?"

"Got a nosebleed," Dean said, still trying to look tough but hovering over him intent and motherly. "Haven't had one of those since you were real little. Except when someone smacked you in the face, anyway."

Sam frowned but let Dean dab away. He supposed it hadn't been his nose running with tears after all. Oh, well. He shrugged it off. "S'all right. Doesn't hurt."

Dean looked at him intently, maybe judging if he was telling the truth or not, but eventually seemed satisfied. He nodded shortly and went back to checking Sam over for marks, fussing until he couldn't find anything else to clean.

"Have a sip?" Sam asked when Dean went to screw shut his flask, and Dean tipped it to his lips instead. Sam drank greedily, trying to fill his thick tongue back up with moisture, and blot out some of the pain in his head and legs, and in his neck and wrists, and... and inside.

"Easy, easy," Dean coaxed, pulling it back before Sam had had his fill and Sam tried to crane to follow it but was pulled up short by the belt.

Dean set the flask down and went to unbuckle the belt, like it had been an oversight, and Sam found himself saying, "Wait—" before he knew why. "Wait, not... not yet," he said, swallowing and blinking at himself.

Dean stared at him, while Sam tried to look anywhere else. His face started to get hot, flushing under the scrutiny.

"What d'you need, Sammy?" Dean asked, low and careful. "You tell me." A hand came up to rest on the side of Sam's face, tipping it just a little until Sam more or less had to face him, had to look into his eyes.

Sam gaped, unsure. "Did you kill him?" he asked, suddenly, rather than answer. Or maybe it was an answer. 

"No," Dean admitted, hot and loathing. "Got away, bastard. He ain't gonna walk right for a long time, though, and he ain't look good ever again," he added, dark satisfaction coming off him in waves.

Sam felt a little tremble of thrill go through him. He'd seen a little of it, though it felt more like a fever dream than a memory, but he could picture it, all the violent retribution taken out on the john's flesh by Dean's hands. "Thank you," he said, earnest and full of feeling.

Sam leaned against the pull of the belt again, parting his lips, telegraphing his need hard. Dean looked uneasy, searching his face, but Sam closed his eyes and tipped his face up just a fraction, open, and Dean gave in, crushing in with a bruising kiss in spite of his own damaged mouth. Sam sucked at his lip and tried to swallow his tongue, trying to taste Dean and booze and blood and nothing else.

 _That's it,_ he thought. _That's what I need._ He needed to wash the taste of the john out of his whole body, burn it out with Dean and righteous holy fire.

"Fuck me," he blurted abruptly against Dean's mouth, and Dean made a sound like he'd been stabbed.

"Fuck, Sammy," he muttered, frayed, "I can't, you just—Sammy," he repeated, desperate, but still kissing Sam like he wanted to eat him alive.

 _"Fuck me,"_ Sam repeated, mean and hungry, "right here. Just like this," he added, inspired, pulling against the ties and gripping at Dean's body with his legs, now that they were more or less responding to his command.

"Sammy," Dean tried again, all agony and worry, but Sam knew he was breaking down. His hands were starting to rove over Sam's skin, reverent and claiming.

"Need it," Sam begged, finally, and Dean cracked, hauling Sam up by the hips so he could wedge in beneath him, crawling awkwardly forward on his knees until he was right exactly where the john had been—had been but hadn't belonged, right where Dean and _no one but Dean_ belonged.

"Yes," Sam hissed, some strange relief washing through him, aimless need filling his belly, filling his body, burning away at the seasick feeling. _More,_ it said. _More until it's too much, then a little more._

Dean bit at his mouth and dug around between them to get his cock out, and it was only moments until it was nudging hard and hot at Sam. It was awkward and sudden, but there was enough of the slickness left inside of Sam that Dean slid home easy enough.

It ached, but the hurt was deeper and righter, this part of Dean filling Sam where he was empty, making him wholer. Dean wasn't gentle, but his arms snaked around Sam's skinny ribs and clutched him close, belly to belly, face to face, needy and engulfing, like he could shield Sam the way it mattered with just his body. He hissed "Mine" again and again into Sam's neck, while Sam breathed "Yes" and "Yes" and "Yours," driven out again and again on the pulse of Dean's body.

Dean came sudden and startled and began reaching between them for Sam's neglected erection, muttering indistinct apologies and "Sammy," and "Oh, God," and "Sammy..." His voice was a little too tight, and Sam knew he wasn't apologizing to Sam's dick, knew it was too big, too much. 

Sam shushed him, grabbed him tight with his legs, trying to crush Dean's body up against his. "Forget it," he mumbled, "just... just," he begged, trying to will Dean's arms back around him, to just hold him again like he was dying. That was too big to say, too. Dean knew; Dean grabbed back on like he wanted to crush the breath out of Sam, like if he mashed them tight enough together nothing could ever get between them again.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean mumbled thick in his ear, "Christ, 'm so sorry—never—never again—"

Sam felt like he was floating, thought maybe he could bleed away at the edges into Dean, that Dean could melt into him too. He shook his head slowly, just faint, and bit soft at Dean's ear. It meant _I'm here._ It meant _I'm safe and I've got you and you've got me._ Dean's breath came out shaking and his fingers promised bruises.

Sam closed his eyes. "I'm okay. Dean, I'm okay," he promised, quiet, and thought he meant it. And still naked and bound at the neck and wrists, some underworld crucifixion, he breathed it like a secret, like a promise: "I'd do it again, for you."


End file.
